“You spoil me,” I say, toasting her.
“Best friend burden. Besides, we have more than one thing to celebrate today.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “You must be happy, Jules.”
Oh. Right. That. “Thanks,” I murmur.
“What happened? You fucked the cabana boy?” Meredith asks, scrolling through emails on her phone.
“No. My divorce is final,” I say, trying to sound cheery. And I do. Mostly. Even Meredith stills for a minute. Wow, she actually looks sort of chastened.
“Sorry, kid. I have a huge fucking mouth.” She squeezes my hand. “Congratulations. I know what a prick he was.”
This is the part where I should shout “hell fucking yeah” and jump up, fist in the air, superhero style. Then we would all whirl around and turn into a bunch of bright spandex-suited ladies and run off to fight marvelous amounts of crime and eat copious amounts of cake.
But instead, I force a smile and nod. I had been married to Drew for five years. He had been a delight for four of them. Then my career had taken off, and so had he.
“Hey,” Shanna says, gently nudging me out of my funk. “Want to wave those guys over?” She points to three men walking along the casino floor. One of them’s rolling a bag. I feel that burden, brother. “Three of them. One for each of us.” She winks, and Meredith guffaws.
“I’m old enough to be their mother,” Meredith says. “So I would definitely fuck them. Let’s do this.” She whistles and waves at the masculine trio. One of them looks nice and, basically, normal. The other has a gelled hair, Axe body-sprayed, pleasant doofus look about him. And the third, with the rolling suitcase, he’s . . . .
Shit. It’s tall, dark and scowling. He surveys us with a clearly bored and sullen expression.
“What’s wrong? You look like you swallowed a NuvaRing,” Shanna says, looking alarmed.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, and dammit, I mean it. Fuck it. I came here to drink a lot, laugh a lot, and gamble in moderation. Mr. Tightass can’t spoil my good time.
“Ladies,” Axe Bodyspray says, sliding over to us. He whips off his sunglasses; why the hell was he wearing them indoors? “Mind if we join you for an appetizer?”
“Apertif?” Shanna says, though she laughs. “I think that’s what you meant.”
To this guy’s credit, he doesn’t get flustered or douchey. He laughs right along. Hey, if there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s a good sport.
“Sounds good. Let’s get together and make some magic happen.” God, that line. He’s kind of adorable in a frisky puppy sort of way.
Axe Bodyspray takes a seat between Meredith and Shanna. The normal guy sits a little farther away, smiling at all of us but not leaning in. I get the feeling he’s taken. And that leaves only the seat next to me available for Tightass.
“Hello,” the jerk says, blandly and pleasantly. He looks like we’re meeting for the first time.
Great, I must’ve made an indelible impression when I smacked into him in the lobby and fell over. He doesn’t remember three minutes ago. Which is fine. I totally don’t want to remember it either. Even if he’s got those Clive Razor godlike looks.
“What are you boys doing here?” Meredith asks, leaning back to scope out Axe’s ass. He doesn’t seem to be put off by it.
“Bachelor party. For me,” normal guy says with a smile.
There you go. My romantic instincts are never wrong.
“Who’s the lucky lady? Or guy?” Shanna asks.
“Lady. My fiancée, Stacy. She’s around here somewhere. Name’s Mike Rosenbaum.” He shakes with us. “That’s Tyler Berkley,” he says, pointing to Axe, “and Nate Wexler.”
That would be Tightass McGee right here.
“Julia Stevens,” I say, holding out my hand to him, my eyebrow arching. “We bumped into each other back at check in.”
“I remember,” he says, giving my hand a quick, firm shake. “I remember that.” He eyes my suitcase with something like disgust.
Wow. Not talking to this dick any longer. I smile over at Mike instead.
“What are you gorgeous ladies doing all alone in Vegas?” Tyler asks, wiggling his eyebrows at Shanna.
“We’re at the Romantic Style convention. It lasts the whole weekend,” Shanna says, sipping her drink.
“You’re romance writers?” Mike asks with a smile. He seems genuinely interested. “That’s crazy. My fiancée is obsessed, maybe she’s heard of you.”
“I write under A.M Leroy,” Shanna says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she hasn’t heard of my books, though. They’re a little—er—out there. Kind of have a niche audience.”
Shanna always sells herself short. “What she means is she writes sci-fi erotica with amazing world-building and really kinky sex,” I say. “Android bondage? Bisexual alien queens with a harem? That right there is your lady.”